Out of the Easy(36)
“How’s Charlie?” I asked.
“The same.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just tired. Did the cops find you yesterday?” asked Patrick.
“Of course they did. You told them I’d be on Gravier Street. Why did you tell them where I was?”
Patrick eyed me, confused. “I figured you’d want to help. I know you thought Mr. Hearne was a nice guy, just like I did. Don’t you want to find out what really happened to him?”
“It’s not any of my business. What do I know about Mr. Hearne? I’ve only been interested out of curiosity.”
Patrick shrugged. “And? How did it go with Mr. Lockwell?”
“I told him I was there on your behalf, that you wanted his daughter’s hand in marriage.”
“Sure, then you can marry the kitten-killing brother, and we’ll be one happy family. But seriously, what happened?”
“He made me wait over an hour, so I told the receptionist that I’d just visit him at home. He then appeared instantly and escorted me to his office, which, for the record, is larger than this store and has a full bar.”
“Of course,” Patrick said.
“So I made him a couple martinis, and after a bit of uncomfortable conversation, he agreed to write the letter.”
“Wow. So you did it. That’s great,” said Patrick.
I nodded and motioned to the boxes on the counter. “What’d you get?”
“Yves Beaufort died. He had a large collection of Victor Hugo that Charlie always wanted. I have to go back for the rest, but I’m dreading it. When I arrived this morning, the widow was in a black negligee. Said it was her mourning attire. She told me she would give me a discount if I fixed her sink.”
“Ew. Isn’t Mrs. Beaufort near eighty?”
“Eighty-two and doesn’t look a day older than ninety-five. And what do I know about plumbing? The things I do for Victor Hugo, huh?”
The door opened and Frankie sauntered into the shop. He put his hands on his hips and looked around.
“Frankie! You finally came to buy a book.”
“Hey, Yankee girl.” He folded a stick of pink chewing gum into his mouth, smelling the foil wrapper before crushing it and shoving it into his pocket. “Not looking for books, just looking for you.” He nodded to Patrick. “Hey, Marlowe, how’s the old man doin’?”
“He’s swell, thanks,” said Patrick.
“So, Jo, I heard that you were at the clink yesterday. Everything all right?” asked Frankie.
“Darleen told you?”
“I didn’t say who told me. Everything all right?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine, Frankie.”
“They askin’ about your momma?”
“No, why would they be asking about Mother?” I said.
“They were asking about the guy who died on New Year’s Eve,” said Patrick. I looked at him and furrowed my brow. He didn’t need to volunteer any information.
Frankie looked from me to Patrick, his jaw working the gum. “The guy from Memphis. Right. The cops come here, too?” he asked Patrick.
Patrick didn’t respond. Frankie looked at me.
“Forrest Hearne bought two books at the shop the day he died. They asked me if I thought he seemed sick when he was at the store. I told them that he seemed fine. That’s it.”
Frankie leaned on the counter and spun one of the books toward him. “Victor Huge-o.”
“It’s pronounced Hugo,” said Patrick. I had to stifle a laugh. Mispronunciation was one of Patrick’s pet peeves.
“Oh, yeah? I knew a guy named Hugo once. Still owes me a ten spot.” Frankie flipped open the book and began riffling through the pages.
“Please, the spine. It’s very old,” said Patrick, carefully taking the book. “Can I help you find something else?”
“Nah,” said Frankie, standing up and cracking his knuckles. “So, Jo, got anything Willie should know?”
He looked at me in that typical Frankie way. It was impossible to know what he knew, but I had to assume whatever he did know he told Willie, and Willie paid him handsome for it. Guilt crawled over me again. I should have told Willie about the watch. I had never kept anything like this from her. But Frankie couldn’t know I had the watch. The only thing I could be sure of was that Frankie knew more than I did.
“No, I don’t have anything for Willie. I’ll let you know if I do,” I told him.
“Yeah?” He smiled and cracked his gum. “And will ya let me know how long you’ve been seein’ Jesse Thierry?”
Patrick spun around. “You’re seeing Jesse Thierry?”
“I’m not seeing Jesse Thierry,” I said.
Frankie grinned. “No? Word on the street is that you were sittin’ in his lap last night and he was whispering in your ear.”
I hated this town. Who was watching me? I stared at Frankie. Had he told Willie?
“Where did this happen?” said Patrick.
“I’m not a gossip man, Marlowe—I’m an information man.” Frankie held out his hand for payment.
“Stop! You’re not selling information on me. It was at the soda counter at Dewey’s, and it was just a joke. Jesse’s a friend.”